All Enema'ed Out
by si-star-x
Summary: Originally written for a hoodie time prompt. Dean has bowel trouble, so Sam has the bright idea of giving him an enema. Dean's in pain with stomach cramps, so cue complaining, passing out and trying to hide his problem. Just a standard brotherly enema!
1. Chapter 1

Behind the windscreen, green eyes are squinted slightly to draw a path within the low setting sun, orange light bathing the car as the day falls behind the horizon. As the sun falls, so does a cloak of silence, a brief reprieve after a lengthy marathon of classic rock. The rumble of the engine is now all that accompanies the two men on their journey.

Dean clears his throat, breaking the gentle ease of focusing on the road and the sound of the engine. Then, as Sam is just pulling out of his own reverie, Dean speaks. Breaking the silence with what sounds like it could be the most natural question in the world.

He doesn't even shift his gaze from the road.

"When was the last time I took a dump?"

The shotgun passenger jerks his head to the left, momentarily considering the question at hand.

"Should I know?" Sam's voice is forced out in some form of a choke.

A shrug of the shoulders, a brief raise of one eyebrow.

"Forget it."

It wasn't as though the guys made a habit of discussing their bowel movements. Or anything to do with bodily fluids. Unless it was blood. Blood was a recurrent trend. Vomit even reared it's head sometimes, after a dodgy burger or a night of hustling pool that resulted in more alcohol intake than was probably necessary. It was usually Sam who tossed his cookies. And always in the morning. Typical.

Sam felt a certain degree of curiosity regarding his brother's outburst, but honestly? He had no intentions of pressing the issue. If Dean wanted to have random outbursts of anal fascination, that was his choice. He didn't need to have a discussion about Freud and psychosexual stages. There was no difficulty in seeing where Dean would get lost.

Through visiting hundreds of tiny gas stations in hundreds of tiny towns, the guys have already learned an important lesson. Very few ever have toilet facilities. There is no expectation to actually get the luxury of a toilet on the road, and both guys have definitely pissed and crapped in some pretty unconventional places. With this in mind, they just never discuss it afterwards. Dean is certainly prone to making more piss 'n' poop jokes than his younger brother, but it is never explicit. He just knows it grosses Sam out, and being an annoyance is often the only source of entertainment they have.

The only reason he asked the damn question was because sitting in the Impala for hours is usually an easy feat. The seats are padded and supportive to rear-ends that, let's face it, are not particularly delicate. It's just that this morning Dean woke up with a stomach that just didn't feel right. He's had days where he has been feeling less than awesome, but usually he can pinpoint the cause. Today it's slightly different. His gut usually wants to expel the crap he has eaten, but it just feels wrong. It feels like it doesn't want to let go.

After spending the night in one of their worst choices of accommodation, Dean sits in the bathroom for over fifteen minutes.

"Great." He mumbles under his breath, elbows resting on his knees as stomach muscles attempt to contract. It's clear that nothing is going to be released, and he gathers himself up, grimacing slightly as he feels matter in his bowels that would love to be dropped right into that toilet bowl.

He's fairly sure that the choice of yellow tiles for a bathroom should be illegal. He imagines being in a clean, white, modern bathroom, on a toilet with a bidet in the corner, and envisages that in that bathroom he'd definitely be able to dispense his burden.

"Dean?" Sam calls, rapping on the bathroom door. "It's nearly ten, we need to get going."

So he sighs, pulls his jeans back up to his waist and with a longing glance at the toilet seat, succumbs to the fact that it just isn't happening. But hey, he's had days like this before. Constipation is not exactly a rarity, and there's definitely no point in sharing it with Sam. Sam hates that stuff. Besides, who would want to tell their brother that they couldn't push anything it out? Dean hides illness and injuries at the best of times.

"Are we good to go?" Sam asks, sending a smile towards his brother as he motions to his duffle, everything packed neatly inside.

"Yeah, just a minute." Dean nods, gathering up his own junk and stuffing it into his bag. He pulls a gun from under the pillow and chuckles slightly. It was difficult to imagine ever breaking out of the life.

As he moves, he realises that he can feel the lumps in his bowel that need to be dispersed. When he bends it pushes down slightly and causes his body to jerk from the sensation. He's pretty sure that there are some laxatives in the car, probably a bottle of milk of magnesia left over from the last time he had the displeasure of feeling this way.

Sam has forgotten about yesterdays question, and he happily follows Dean out to the Impala on a mission to find breakfast and then to continue in their journey.

When they reach the nearest café, hesitation strikes Dean, as he is about to order. He can just about put up with the level of discomfort at that moment, but it certainly wouldn't be good to build up more and more waste that can't be shifted. Regardless, he orders a plate of sausage and bacon and makes a mental note to down the bottle of laxatives when he uses the bathroom.

"So, what's the plan?" Sam asks, flicking through the local newspaper. "There's nothing going on around here."

"Drive a few more hours." Dean shrugs, forks a mouthful of meat into his mouth. "I'm sure something will come up."

Or come out, hopefully.

When they get back into the car, sitting down isn't exactly a breeze any more. The movement of Dean's legs against the pedals makes muscles contract just enough to make him feel as though he needs to use the bathroom. Constantly. He's just about managing to keep his expression neutral, but that laxative is obviously useless and the food he had isn't exactly helping either.

Dean manages to continue the drive through the afternoon and into the early evening. As they pass through a service station he pockets a packet of Senna tablets, a 'natural' method of relieving constipation, although he definitely doesn't hold high hopes for that one. Again he bypasses the need to tell Sam. He'll tell Sam if he needs to. Which he doesn't.

Sam takes the wheel for an hour or two and instead of this helping, it just makes Dean fidget. He can't sit still, and he knows that Sam keeps glancing over at him. He'll probably have to let slip that he's having a bit of a toilet issue, because he definitely doesn't want Sam thinking that he's had his anal cavity... disturbed.

"We really do need to find something to investigate soon." Sam chuckles, briefly turning to smile at his brother.

Yeah. You've just completely missed the mark with that one, Sammy. A hunt was not needed right now. Not when Dean's brain was telling him to empty his bowels but said bowels were holding onto everything like a comfort blanket.

Dean just smiled, nodded and then closed his eyes. It seemed like a good idea, feign sleep for a while and hope to god that those gently contracting muscles do not decide to notch it up a gear.

He avoided eating in the evening, although his stomach was unforgivably still gurgling for food. A handful of M&M's was all he gave in to, and Sam only ate some chocolate from the vending machines outside the motel. It was probably that kind of crappy nutrition choices that caused Dean's body to protest in the first place.

He took three Senna tablets before sleeping and hoped that they would loosen him up enough to be dispelled in the morning.

Unfortunately his body decided that he didn't deserve to sleep until the morning. He awoke to an incredible pressure pushing down on his bladder, and he had to jump out of bed to catch the toilet in time. He sank down onto the freezing cold porcelain seat and realised that he was shaking. The balls of his feet were bouncing to their own rhythm and his shoulders gave their own rendition of a shiver. He felt uncharacteristically cold, especially considering he was the first to crack open a window or push the blankets from his body when asleep. He barely needed to make any effort to push, as his muscles seemed to be working on their own steam. When he did push, it caused a sharp burning sensation to spread vertically.

With eyes forcibly held closed, Dean must have sat on that toilet for almost an hour. He felt himself slipping in and out of consciousness, but nothing was happening. He tried to relax, he tried to push through the pain barrier and he attempted every position he could physically contort his body into in an attempt to rid himself of the waste. With no success.

It must have been four in the morning when he pulled himself upright and moved back into the bedroom. Walking was uncomfortable now, sore where he had attempted to push and fullness in his bowel that was just... full. As he lay down, curling around himself, he came to realise that his stomach was starting to feel tender. He pushed down underneath his bellybutton and had to bite down, hard enough to draw blood, to stifle a yelp of pain. He'd had constipation before, but this was pushing the boundaries of his previous experience.

So he dry swallowed two more Senna tablets and managed to find his way back into a restful state.

"Morning." Sam yawned, waking Dean up what seemed like only half an hour later.

In reality it had been another five hours, and Sam was slightly concerned considering it was the second day in a row that Dean hadn't been awake first.

"Mm." Dean murmured from his position under the bed sheets. He could have slept for much longer, and knew that although fairly comfortable curled up as he was, the moment he moved... anything could happen.

Sam had already showered, evidenced by his towel-dried hair and damp torso, so that screwed up Dean's plans of getting up alone.

Dean didn't open his eyes straight away, figuring that he might as well enjoy the semi-comfort whilst the option was still there. He had previously thought that laxatives made you desperately urgently need to empty your bowels. They obviously did a lot of false advertising.

"Are you sick?" Sam asked softly, taking a seat on the edge of his brother's bed that sent shock waves across the mattress and up into Dean's sore stomach. "Your face is pale."

Dean cracked open an eye at that one and acknowledged the question with a nod.

He certainly felt sick. It wasn't just his rectum that was cramping to release the bodily waste, his actual bowels appeared to have joined the bass beat and the reverberations were felt deep into his stomach. He didn't feel as though he would vomit, but the nausea was present. The symptoms just racked up.

"I'll get us another day here." Sam nodded, pushing back up to his feet. "No point in driving around aimlessly. You'll only feel worse."

Dean smiled slightly, nodding his head in agreement. "Yeah."

"Where do you feel bad?" Sam asked, pulling on his shoes. "Is it your stomach?"

If Dean had a cold or the flu, he probably would have put up a fight over Sam's suggestion. He would cough, sneeze, sniffle his way out of it and they would be back on the road within the hour. But this was different, and he knew that staying in one place was probably the best option for a day or two. On the same token, he still didn't want to go into the details.

He nodded as an answer to Sam's probing.

Truth be told, it was still bordering on being workable. If Dean knew for sure that the moment he stood up he would feel the same, he wouldn't hesitate in carrying on with their journey. Unfortunately, he knew the minute he stood on two feet gravity would take its toll and cause the muscles to cramp uncontrollably. He knew it was going to be a bad day from the outset; especially considering the laxatives had apparently managed to do no frigging good at all.

When the door clicks shut and the motel room turns silent, Dean is acutely aware of his breathing. Deep and controlled, in through the mouth out through the nose in an attempt to control the rising tide of discomfort, pressure and borderline pain. He knows he's passed the point of laugh-it-off, 'crapping can wait 'til morning' constipation, but he isn't quite sure what the next stage is. Does he just fill up until his intestines burst? Will it eventually force its way out like a bullet from a pistol?

He keeps his eyes closed, still curled around his increasingly tender abdomen. For a moment he lies there. His lower back is starting to ache ever so slightly and although he woke comfortably, his body was already pushing him into a field of pain.

His bowels begin to contract with a sharp push that grates through his rectum and into his stomach.

"Fuck." He groans, low and deep, realising that a trip to the bathroom was in order.

Although he hadn't been able to go earlier that morning, perhaps the medication had finally gone to work and the stomach gurgles and trapped wind were a sign that he needed to release promptly.

He felt strangely weak as he tossed back the sheet, keeping his body in the half-moon position to delay the onslaught of pain. Dean figured it was because he hadn't eaten properly since breakfast the previous morning and the dizzy sensation was probably equally due to low blood sugars.

He took a deep breath whilst his body straightened. Thankfully the cramps held off, if anything the change of position served to relax tense and contracting muscles. When he took position to stand, as soon as his weight was fully seated, the pressure increased tenfold and he leapt up, again desperate to empty his bladder.

At least his urinary tract was still working, Dean figured as he watched the intense stream of liquid hit the inside of the toilet. Usually it was the best feeling in the world to empty a bladder that had been full all night, but today it just added to his torture. As the muscles in his bladder contracted to release the yellow-tinged liquid, the linked muscles also pushed more intensely down his bowel, sphincter constantly forced open to allow expected lumps to fall.

At this point he was fairly certain that nothing was going to come out, but again he took position on the seat, knees and elbows bent as muscles contracted of their own accord. Spasms in the bowel are completely natural; a body's way of pushing out accumulated waste, but these spasms were uncontrollable and sporadic and painful – definitely not normal.

Dean braced himself as he prepared to hopefully squeeze the contracting muscles into submission. He tensed his stomach and prepared to push, but holy mother of god just tensing his stomach was enough to halt proceedings.

"Uh." He grunted, eliciting a barely audible expletive along with the soft sound.

The sharp, stabbing, radiating pain was enough to force the feeling of nausea into action. His stomach muscles joined in the party, contracting tightly in an obvious effort to expel what would likely be no more than bile. Knowing that a wave of vomit was possibly on the horizon, he pulled himself up to his feet again, yanking his jeans up and wincing as the button pulled denim tight.

As his stomach contracted, his bowel, rectum and sphincter all continued in their tirade against him. His body was fucking at war and he didn't understand what he'd done differently to deserve such shitty torture.

He didn't need to bend. His stomach muscles pulled him down, both arms locking underneath his ribs as the cramps intensified, burning and twisting within him.

But nothing came out.

If Dean had to explain the mess of cramping, contracting and now aching muscles within the centre of his body he would have said it to be a tug of war. Contractions pulling in each direction and ultimately balancing out so that the pressure cumulated in his centre but refused submission to let bile come up or faeces come down.

As the fight continued, perspiration was forming on his brow and gone was the controlled breathing. His breath was ragged, each intake exacerbating the pain.

His stomach contracted again, muscles pulling him down, arms still wrapped tightly around his midsection. His ass was sore from the constant opening and pressure, but fuck. He didn't know what was going on any more. As a wave caused his bowels to spasm continually, his stomach attempted to retch bile and stomach contents up, and it was just too much.

It started with dizziness, double vision and a fireball of agony lancing front-to-back. It ended with black, his head barely missing the toilet bowl as he went down onto the floor and into a state of complete unconsciousness.

::

Not surprisingly, the room was available for the next two nights. It was a really quiet town, very little of anything going on within a ten mile radius and no more than ten houses and a couple of old run-down stores that just about managed to keep their head above water. There were no bars, no pubs and no entertainment, just existing; so Sam did have to wonder why anybody would even stay in the motel out of choice.

"Dean?" He called on return, stretching his arms high above his head. "Do you want breakfast?"

No answer.

Even when sick, Dean would usually whine and demand apple pie to 'aid his recovery', so Sam was again slightly concerned.

"Dean?" He spoke again, moving across to the bathroom door, knocking twice even though he couldn't hear the shower running. Besides, the water would be stone cold by now and that wouldn't do any favours.

Like most of the crappy motels they holed up in, the lock on the bathroom door was broken. So Dean was either locked in good and proper or a gentle push would reveal all. Sam let out a soft sigh that sank his shoulders and then reached forward to turn the handle. The door creaked open.

His gaze automatically steeled on the denim-clad legs that were sprawled out across the floor. As his eyes moved upwards, he observed arms wrapped tightly around a t-shirt covered waist, a head buried face down in the bathroom floor.

"Dean?" Sam tested his brother's name again, even though it was pretty darn obvious that there would be no response.

"One day, Dean…" Sam muttered to himself as he crouched down, "You will just tell me when you're about to pass out."

He carefully rolls Dean onto his back, pale skin prominent and glistening with a sheen of perspiration. Underneath the shirt, Sam can see that his brother's abdomen is distended, his stomach rounded unnaturally. With furrowed eyebrows, he reaches out to touch the stomach in question. It feels bloated, full of air or vomit or whatever the hell Dean needs to get out of his system.

Sam contemplates moving Dean into the bedroom as undoubtedly the mattress would be a lot more comfortable than the linoleum floor, but decides not to. Instead he shrugs out of his hoodie, folds it in four and then uses it to prop up Dean's head. Dean is breathing normally, his chest rising and falling in what appears to be a natural rhythm, so Sam figures it'll do just as well just to let him sleep, remain unconscious, whatever, until his body rouses itself.

"Call if you need anything." Sam sighs, closing the toilet seat as he makes his way back into the bedroom.

::

As Dean swims through the haze of fog and into consciousness, his head is throbbing. His throat is scratchy and it goes without saying that the cramps have not let up, although for the moment they have faded into the background. He makes a feeble attempt at sitting upright, which just results in his body twisting slightly to the left and shoulders barely leaving the floor.

He coughs to clear his throat and even that slight movement of his chest causes his stomach to burn. He allows his hands to move down onto his stomach, and he retracts them instantly as he feels the taught flesh beneath his shirt. He lifts the shirt, not looking down, and pokes gently. Fuck.

"Sam?" He coughs again, twisting enough to pull his bodyweight up onto one elbow.

Sam is there before Dean gets a chance to look towards the door. He looks concerned and slightly pissed.

"Hey." Dean attempts, keeping his gaze on the ceiling. "I…" He trails off, not quite sure what the situation called for in regards to explanation.

Sam stands with his arms folded across his chest. He wants to kneel down, help his brother into the bedroom and fill him with pain meds or whatever would make him feel better, but first he needs to know what the hell had happened.

Dean knows it too. He's trying to breathe through the fullness, the soreness and the throbbing, but all he manages to do is look up at Sam pitifully. His eyes are rimmed with red, his lips chapped.

"Can you get me some water?" He asks softly, his arm shaking under his weight. "Throat's dry."

Sam nods, steps forward, realises there isn't a glass. Long legs carry him quickly back into the bedroom, he returns with an empty paper take-out cup. Swills it out, fills it with slightly coloured water.

Dean needs to stand or sit up at least to be able to take the water with some dignity intact. Sam sets the cup down on the side of the bathtub, reaches out a hand to assist in rising.

Dean's body is shaking. The muscles are working overtime and it's exhausting him.

"Sam…" He shakes his head, "I don't think…"

Before he can finish, he is gripped by frantic contractions, his stomach and bowel working in tandem to screw him over. Lying on his back causes bowel contents to press against the walls of his intestines, the contents feeling sharp and hard against his tender, swollen organs.

"Jesus," He hisses, hands pressed against his stomach even though he is not sure whether that helps or makes it worse.

Sam's eyes are wide as he watches his brother curl over himself in clear pain.

"Dean." He speaks slowly, calmly. "Tell me what the hell is going on."  
Dean's eyes are squeezed shut, salty liquid from his tear ducts beginning to make their journey.

"Ffff…" He groans, taking a breath as the pressure relents slightly.

"What is it?" Sam asks again, the rising panic evident in his voice. "Do you need a hospital, Dean? Did you get hurt? Internal bleeding? What?"

Dean is struggling to focus on Sam's words, but he shakes his head tiredly. "Just need to…" He whispered, cracking open an eye as the muscles relaxed, allowing his body to straighten out. "I need to do a… it won't come out."

So he doesn't quite say it, but Sam understands enough to nod.

"Have you taken anything?" Sam asks tentatively, not exactly an expert in the field. "We probably have some, uh," He clears his throat, "Laxatives in the med kit."

Dean shakes his head, "Didn't help."

Sam nods, bends down with the cup of water in one hand. He knows enough to know that drinking is essential, and he's pretty sure that Dean hadn't had anything liquid since the previous afternoon.

Dean feels the pressure in his bowel rising again, and he tenses up to prepare for the carnage. He pushes himself up on shaking arms, grimaces, and then accepts Sam's huge hand as he offers him assistance.

"Ugh." He grunts as he struggles to find his feet, knees buckling and shaking beneath him.

Standing feels a little better, he isn't so sore from lying down on his ass and at least the pressure has let up. He lets Sam hold the cup to his mouth and he drinks greedily, wincing as it burns his throat at first but eventually finds it's flow and soothes the sharp tickle away.

"I don't know what to do next." Dean speaks slowly, wipes his mouth with the back of one hand. "Laxatives don't do crap…"

Sam's lips quirk up at the pun, but Dean's glare keeps his amusement at bay.

"I don't know what to do."

While Dean is on his feet, Sam guides him back to the bedroom, one hand on a shaking elbow as Dean grimaces with every step. The muscle cramps have pulled at his muscles, causing jolts of pain through his stomach and rectum with every step.

Sam watches as his brother falls onto the bed and turns onto his side to try and find a comfortable position.

"Dean…" He speaks, fumbling with his hands, "I do have one suggestion."

Dean looks up, nods his head as though giving Sam permission to continue.

"Enema."

For a moment, Dean searches his brain, unsure of what that even was. Then it clicked. Fuck.

:: ::

Dean has been bent over his stomach for the last ten minutes as one particular series of cramps, spasms and nausea downright refuses to let up. He's figured out that it helps to just curl up, keep off the left side of his stomach and absolutely under no circumstances sit or put any pressure on his ass. But even without those contributory factors, it hurts. It more than hurts. It's agony. Pain that tears through his gut and his stomach, deep twists and turns that mangle his bowel and force his sphincter to open and close frantically. He has the sheet pulled up over his head, because he's pretty damn sure that he is a snivelling, shaking wreck.

"I don't know how long this has been there…" Sam turns up his nose, shaking a bottle of liquid unhelpfully. "But I'd say it's worth a shot."

"I'm just about ready to dig it out myself." Dean mumbled from his position, flipping the sheet away from his head and twisting his gaze to look towards his brother.

Sam's holding a bottle of liquid with a screw cap and a plastic tube.  
"Don't even ask." Sam shakes his head, eyeing up the two parts suspiciously. "Dad must've put it in there."

Dean shudders, closes his eyes again with a sharp gasp as the cramps continue.

"You do know what I'm going to have to do with this, right?" Sam asks with a sigh, placing the freezing cold bottle down on his own bed. It's a cold day, and everything in the Impala is below freezing.

"I wish I didn't know." Dean grimaced, "Do you know what you're doing with it?"

If Sam were being honest, he would have replied with 'not exactly', but he didn't want to freak his brother out.

"Sure." He nodded instead, holding up the tube, "It's pretty self-explanatory."

"Instructions?" Dean pressed, eyes still held shut. "Not lookin' forward to this."

Sam raised an eyebrow. "Do you think I am?"

"Always knew you were a masochist." Dean smiled slightly, wincing as a cramp twisted deep in his bowl, "Hence the… enema."

"Yeah, Dean." Sam rolled his eyes, "Because this is totally mine. Expiry date…" He squinted to read the packaging, "2002."

It didn't concern them that it should have been used five years ago. Most of the crap in their makeshift med kit had been around longer than they had.

Sam knew that they would probably end up making a mess, a big mess, but they've left motel rooms covered in bodily substances before. Namely blood. If the owner thought they had spent a 'dirty weekend' together, they would live with it. They could barely manage to pinpoint a motel they'd visited more than once.

As Sam watched his brother's face contort with pain, he knew there was no turning back from the plan. If he'd filled himself with laxatives and there was still no motion, this was the option, and there was no opting out.

The clear liquid was sodium phosphate and Dean would need to hold the liquid inside his bowel for three minutes for it to work.

Sam knew it could induce severe cramps, far worse than those his brother had been experiencing, but also knew that manual excavation was so not an option for them.

"Dean?" Sam spoke softly, moving towards the bed. "Shall we...?"

If the cramps were not so damn frequent and debilitating, there is no way Sam would be going anywhere near his ass hole with a tube and whatever that bottle contained.

"Sorry for making you do this." Dean whispered, lifting his hips to allow Sam to pull down the denim and leather belt.

Sam chuckled at his brother's words. It wasn't exactly an ideal situation for him either, but at least he'd seen it all before.

"I'll get you a heat pad if it's still hurting afterwards." Sam patted his brother on the shoulder as he debated the best way of administering the liquid.

If he had researched beforehand, he would have found that it's better to do it lying on the left hand side with one leg bent upwards, but for fear of increasing Dean's current pain, Sam kept him lying as he was.

After vigorously shaking the bottle, and shuddering at how cold it was, Sam secured the tubing to the end of the nozzle.

He took a deep breath, leant his head back and then focused on the job at hand.

Dean was whimpering softly before the enema even began, but as the tube was carefully slid up into his tender passage, the muscles began a new mission in trying to force the tubing out.

"Ow..." Dean groaned, feeling the muscles push down on the tube that was scraping inside him as it moved upwards.

Sam had to push hard through both the lingering stools and pulsating rectal walls that wanted the foreign object out. He felt the tube scratch against flesh and winced inwardly. He knew Dean was going to be sore as hell for days after this.

"I'm in." Sam spoke quietly, resting a reassuring hand on Dean's arm as he prepared to hold the bottle downwards. He didn't warn his brother as the liquid began to seep through the tubing and into the anal cavity.

"Sam!" Dean yelped as he felt the first drips of freezing cold liquid, "Fuck, that's cold!"

Sam recoiled but continued to allow the liquid to pass through the tubing. He purposely hadn't mentioned the cold but now he felt guilty for the lack of pre-warning.

"Sorry." Sam murmured as he squeezed the bottle to allow a faster flow into Dean. "Sorry."

Dean squeezed his eyes tight as the liquid began to fill up to his bowels. The stools themselves were still more prevalent than the liquid, so it was only the coldness that made him grimace. As more and more was pumped in, however, he could barely control the jerk of pain as his bowels were filled.

Sam squeezed the bottle tightly, watching the remaining liquid gush through the tube and up into Dean. He had tears at the corners of his own eyes. He knew it was hurting, and watching those hands form fists and turn white from clenching the mattress was not reassuring.

"It's nearly all in..." Sam nodded, holding the tube horizontally to force the liquid inside. "Nearly."

Dean felt his stomach distend even further as he was filled with freezing cold liquid. "Fuck, Sam..." He gasped, moving one hand to clutch at his abdomen. "Jesus..."

The bottle was empty, the tube dripping remnants of liquid into Dean's bowels. For ten seconds, Dean was able to breathe through the excessive fullness and the cramps did not increase.

As the liquid found it's destination and settled inside his small intestine, however, Dean's eyes shot open and he couldn't control the gasping sob that forced through his throat. Once again he was bent at the middle, both arms supporting his stomach as the cramps rippled through him.

"Oh, god..." He moaned, tears causing his eyes to glaze over. "Oh. My. God."

Sam had to force the tube inside as Dean moved, muscles successively managing to push it out just a little bit. He knew that he had to keep it in, otherwise the liquid wouldn't work it's magic.

"Just two minutes, Dean." Sam attempted to reassure his brother, one hand resting on the small of his back and rubbing in small circular motions. "Two minutes."

Dean continued to mumble incoherently as the muscles in his bowels contracted against the tide.

Under normal circumstances, an enema wouldn't be particularly painful. The tube would cause a little discomfort, but then it would create a strange fullness that to some people feels pleasant. Team an enema with already contracting, twisting, pulsing, stabbing muscles, and you've got a recipe for agony.

The cold water didn't help either.

"Sammmmm..." Dean growled, his head tipping back to fight the cramps that embraced his stomach. "Get it out, now."

"One more minute." Sam shook his head, his hand shaking from holding the tube in position. "It's nearly done."

Dean started to move, pulling himself away from Sam's hands and threatening to dislodge the tube.

"Don't be a jerk!" Sam exclaimed, grabbing Dean's hip with his free hand and pulling it back against the tube. "If you make this fall out now it was all for nothing."

Dean heard Sam's words, but through his sobs, tears and pain, he was not thinking straight.

"I don't like it, Sammy." He whined, unable to relax,"It hurts."

"I know." Sam sighed, "I know does. In a second d'ya think you can make it to the bathroom?"

Dean nods hesitantly, still pushing against his stomach with both hands. "Do I have to?"

"I draw the line at letting you crap all over yourself in this bed." Sam let out a light hearted chuckle. "So, are you coming?"

As Dean shifted to his feet, the weight of the water in his bowel was causing constant cramping to lance through his stomach. The nausea was there, but it was as though his body had given up trying to force anything out of his mouth.

"Keep going." Sam prompted, following behind with the tube and bottle still attached.

Dean shuffled to the bathroom, the action of walking damn near impossible with shaky knees and his body still hunched over.

When Dean was finally hovering over to the toilet, Sam quickly pulled the tube out and pushed Dean down onto the toilet bowl.

"'m gonna fall over." Dean whispered as Sam left his side to dump the used enema in the sink and to wash his hands.

"I'm coming back." Sam nodded, rubbing the soap between his hands. "How does it feel?"

Dean kept his eyes to the floor, arms still clutching his stomach. "Fuck off."

Sam raised an eyebrow but quickly crossed back over to his brother.  
He sat there for two minutes breathing through the cramps and letting Sam hover, one hand on his shoulder to steady him. After that, it was a blur. The liquid gushed out of Dean like a waterfall, and as it left his body, muscles that had previously constantly contracted fell into relaxation and liquid gushed through his bowel, anal canal and sphincter for at least fifteen minutes.

Dean's stomach still ached with a vengeance and he knew that his stretched bowels would be sore for a few days. His stomach too. It felt like every muscle in there had been pulled.

Sam made him stay seated on the toilet for another fifteen minutes even after it had stopped. He pressed cool water to Dean's lips and made him drink at least three cups before being satisfied.

"We can go back into the bedroom if you want." Sam spoke softly, "I think sleeping is the best thing you can do now."

Dean nodded, utterly exhausted from the whole ordeal. "Sammy." He sighed, running a hand across his perspiration-drenched face, "I'm sorry I made you do that."

"Better me than a stranger." Sam raised his eyebrows, knowing full well that a trip to the hospital would have been even uglier. "C'mon. Bedroom."

"Can you get me some pants?" Dean looked up, for the first time slightly embarrassed by his vulnerable half-naked state.

Sam nodded, again using his long legs to make the action of retrieving Dean's boxer shorts only last seconds. He looped them over Dean's feet and smiled as he was able to tug them up himself.

Dean managed to limp through into the bedroom unaided, but as he collapsed into the bed, Sam knew that he wouldn't be letting him move for a few days.


	2. Chapter 2

The exhaustion had been pulled forth by cramps, spasms, tightening muscles, distended bowels, burning fullness and sharp-edged bodily waste. The pain had been debilitating and demeaning, but once the symptoms had died down it left him weak and shaking with quivering lips and a back soaked neck-to-waist with perspiration. It was at this point that his body pulled up the white flag and forced him into unconsciousness of a less sinister variety.

Sam watched his brother sleep, all twisted hands, bouncing knees and a furrowed brow from his position. The sink was still occupied by the vicious tube and empty plastic container and his large hands made no attempt to move it. He was not entirely sure of his motivations but knew that it was due in large part to his psyche needing to be able to prove to Dean that this had gone down and that it was all consensual. It was a blur even to him, and in the haze of the moment, Sam could barely make out whether he wanted Dean to wake up and remember.

Sam thinks that Dean has been asleep for eighteen hours. Nineteen hours would probably be closer, but then again, he hadn't been focused on the clock yesterday afternoon. Whilst sitting on the edge of his bed, fingers interlocked and twitchy, he knew that the events of the previous day would definitely get shoved behind the wall he built specifically for all the times he has touched Dean's ass, and that one other time where Dean thought his balls had shot through his stomach and through the whimpering, Sam had pushed his brothers hands away just to prove that his manhood was intact.

Dean looks pale and his hair is plastered to his forehead. Sam can tell that his brother's body is shaking beneath the bedsheets and he hopes that he manages to sleep out the worst of the recovery. Sam has never had it as bad as this, and he's sure that it has been a first for Dean too. All things considered, the situation had been damn near ridiculous and he will not talk about this unless Dean asks questions, vicariously or otherwise.

Dean is too-still as he sleeps, the lack of movement enough to force Sam into overdrive. Sam is so used to seeing the man tossing and turning, throwing his blankets off his body and snatching them back as the cool chill hits hard. The stillness is unnerving and it throws Sam off-course; he can't just sit back and read a book or use his laptop for research. He keeps thinking about yesterday. He keeps thinking back to the sink and the paper cup next to the toilet and the sight of Dean shaking beneath his hands. For Dean to be still, it means his body is exhausted beyond movement, and that is what worries Sam the most.

Sam's gaze flickers between his brother and the clock. The clock says one in the afternoon, but Dean remains silent. Sam still can't decide whether he wants Dean to remember, but he knows that that experience was too vivid. For Dean's mind to have eradicated the memory it would have had to have been a traumatic experience, and Sam is fairly certain that he hadn't traumatised Dean, he had only helped him. If he hadn't been the one accelerating the purging it would have been somebody else. If this sight was spun around, Sam watching Dean from the safety of an uncomfortable and unforgiving hospital chair, the pale face against stark hospital sheets, Sam knows that he wouldn't be able to take it. The idea of somebody else touching Dean in that way, even for medicinal purposes... This was better. Even if Dean remembered, which he would, this was better.

Sam knows that he gets twitchy and antsy and unable to sit still when he's nervous or worried, and this is a prime example. Unlike Dean, he can't just sit on his hands and set aside his concerns. So he decides to do something; go to a diner, get some coffee and pie. He knows Dean isn't going to want to eat pie, but as Dean has said on many an occasion: cold pie is better than no pie, and Sam just wants to do something for him. He just wants to help Dean to feel better. He didn't like the sound of his brother hissing in pain and the sight of the strong body hunched over to hold in the agony, and this will be his attempt to make up for notching up the pain before eradicating it.

As Sam pulls his own trembling body up to its full height, he hopes that Dean stays asleep until he gets back. He at least hopes that his big brother has enough sense to stay in bed and not attempt to stumble to the bathroom alone. Sam knows that Dean is going to be one sore son of a bitch today, and he wants to be here with him. He doesn't want to come back and find him unconscious on the bathroom floor again.

The paper cup from yesterday is deposited on the night stand with a trickle of still-coloured water. If Dean wakes, he can drink that. If Dean wakes, he can piss in it afterwards. No reason to get out of the bed.

Sam looks back towards the bed as he pulls open the motel room door, the cool air hitting him hard and fast. He is satisfied that Dean will be able to cope with another hour of rest while he goes to get pie.

Pie makes everything better. Or so Dean says. Sam hopes it's true.

Sam doesn't even particularly like pie, but leaning against the diner counter with sleep-deprived eyes and overwhelming thoughts, he forks a mouthful of hot apples and pastry into his mouth. He feels vaguely nauseous but would be a fool to admit that the sweet-tasting dessert didn't melt in his mouth and sooth away more than hunger pangs. As the combination of fruit and sweetness melted on his tongue, he felt a little guilty for eating alone. He could just imagine the ribbing he would get if Dean found out that he'd ordered a slice of pie just to find out if that motto had been true. Sam knows the motto is utter crap; just mere words spewed out of Dean's mouth in an attempt to charm his way to some pie, but he had to admit it: the pie did help. It was good pie too, so he picked up an extra slice for Dean. If Dean didn't want it, he sure wouldn't pass it up.

Pushing his way back into the motel room with an armful of coffee and pie, Sam was more than a little relieved to find that the bed at the far end of the room was still occupied. The silence still loomed and Dean did not appear to have shifted position, but Sam could breathe a sigh of relief to find his brother in one piece. Recovering, but in one piece.

Sam took position on the edge of his bed again, hands now occupied with a paper cup full of hot coffee and legs subdued enough to be bent but not bouncing. The pie had made him feel warm and fuzzy inside, and it was a good feeling. He just wanted Dean to wake up, eat pie with him and feel warm and fuzzy too.

Sam remembered yesterdays promise to Dean of the heat-pad, and after tipping the last of the strong liquid into his mouth, he pulled himself back up to take a trip to the car. The heat-pad was a fantastic invention and certainly a necessity for every hunter, Sam would vouch for that fact. It always amazed him that he only ever discovered the benefits during that second Christmas at Stanford, when he unwrapped the purple wrapping paper to find a Homedics box tied up in a purple ribbon.

Jess had said it was for his back. His back has always twinged with pain on bending, standing, laying down, moving, but that was just the bitter consequence of being so tall. Sam didn't even know Jess knew. At that moment, he was hit with the knowledge that she was the sweetest girl in existence and he wouldn't let her go without a fight.

Sam keeps the heat-pad in the car buried at the bottom of the trunk with his Stanford hoodie and Jess's notebook. Those are the three things that Dean knows not to touch, and to this day he hasn't. Sam only pulls out the heated-pad-of-awesome during special occasions: he's had it plugged in for his back a couple of times, for Dean's pulled groin and for that cold-ass night when the heating was non-existent, but other than that it rarely sees the light of day. It's still in that box and the box still contains the purple ribbon. He knows it's silly, but it's all that he has. His stomach clenches as he pulls out the pad and the extension cord and leaves the box in the car, and on the way back to the room he takes slow steps, hugging the pad close to his chest.

Dean is still pale, silent and unmoving and this time when he sees the sight, Sam is glad for the enema. He knows that if he hadn't suggested the relief yesterday afternoon then this afternoon would be a completely different picture.

"Dean." Sam speaks softly as he bends over the night stand and replaces the lamp socket with something far more functional. "Wake up, man."

Dean doesn't respond straight away, Sam knows this because he is hovering, both hands splayed across the pad as it begins to heat up. Sam has a bottle of over-the-counter pain pills in his pocket and he knows that the heat will barely take the edge off the pain, and later, once Dean is feeling good enough to sit, he'll press them into his palm and just smile knowingly.

It's Dean's voice that tells Sam that his words were enough to jerk him from sleep, lips that barely part enough to emit the sound. "Sam." He mumbles back, eyes slowly following suit and flickering open. "Mornin'."

Sam grins, a hand shooting to the back of his neck to fumble with his shirt collar nervously. "You don't need to move. I just..." He motions weakly to the heat-pad even though the arm is clearly out of Dean's vision. "Here."

As the pad reaches a comfortable temperature, Sam momentarily lifts Dean's sheets and slides it towards him, feeling it press against the stomach of the recipient.

"Thanks." Dean mumbles again as he closes his eyes, and Sam hears the sound of Dean's arm shifting across the mattress to press the heat closer to his torn stomach muscles. "'kay."

"You going back to sleep?" Sam asks softly, still hovering. "This is your twentieth hour, you know."

"Mm." Dean's voice is barely audible and little more than an incoherent whisper. "Later."

So Sam doesn't know what Dean meant by 'later' – See you later? We'll talk later? But with the heat-pad working its sweet function and Dean's arm moving again to tug it closer, Sam felt a sense of warmth and fuzziness of a different kind. A yawn pulled through his thoughts, and Sam smiled to himself as he realised that he should probably sleep to.

So he did.


End file.
